


Me and Bobby McGee

by distelhawk



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: BAMF Darcy Lewis, F/M, POV Darcy Lewis, Pregnancy, Sarcasm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 15:39:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/967680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distelhawk/pseuds/distelhawk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Let me tell you a thing here, oh Captain my Captain.” I plant my foot on the floor, leaning closer while he leans back. “I’ve been stranded on this stupid couch for the last 4 days. When I’m not lying on the couch, I am in bed. The only time I’m not on either horizontal surface, I am shifting around because, let me tell you, everything hurts and as if that wasn’t enough, I am on roughly 50 bathroom runs a day. Yes, peeing like a fucking horse is about as much stress as I get these days so you better think long and hard about what you say to me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Me and Bobby McGee

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Delicate](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/27485) by padfoot4ever. 



> There are two reasons for this story to be in existence.  
> 1) [Delicate](http://www.harrypotterfanfiction.com/viewstory.php?psid=240987) by padfoot4ever is just about the most amazing next-gen HP FF in the world and her Rose is pretty much my inspiration for this story. Also - spatula, people, the fucking spatula! 
> 
> 2) There is just a lack of pregnancy/kid fics in the Clint/Darcy verse and so I tried to do my own bit. Pregnancy not your thing? Well, for one, this isn't half as mushy as pregnancy fics could be and well, if you don't like it don't read it, easy peasy.
> 
> I do hope there will be more stories that give Clint and Darcy a family. I know it's a challenge writing Darcy as a mother (or an expecting one) but I am pretty sure that's half the fun. Plus father!Clint just gives me all the feels.
> 
> ANYWAY!
> 
> This is the drabble that wouldn't end, now clocking in at nearly 10.000 words. But hey, long fic is good, righ? If you want a soundtrack to listen to while reading, I listened to mainly Janis Joplin (surprise!) while writing. 
> 
> Thanks to [scribbles934](http://archiveofourown.org/users/scribbles934) for the Beta work! You're the best, hon!

  
**Me and Bobby McGee**  
 _Busted flat in Baton Rouge, waiting for a train_  
 _And I's feeling nearly as faded as my jeans._  
 _Bobby thumbed a diesel down just before it rained,_  
 _It rode us all the way to New Orleans._  
~ Janis Joplin

 

There are many fine qualities to each of the members of the Avengers and when you put them all together, mix ‘em around like cookie batter, fun times are too be had. Actually, living with the Avengers does come very close to being on a constant sugar high with the odd very nasty come-down thrown in just for kicks.

Take Steve for example. Always so nice and reliable; smiling, helpful, considerate and sure as hell not bad to look at but boy, once he is comfortable somewhere, that man can get nasty. Well, not really, we are talking about Captain America here. But who would have thought that he of all people would take to sarcasm like a fish to water? And he is good about it, too. He doesn’t abuse the privilege of being part of the club – something I sure as hell have never managed. He puts it out there when people least expect it, going for maximum impact until everyone is a wheezing mess on the floor. It’s always the quiet ones, right?

Natasha, once you get past the whole “can kill you with a chap stick” thing, is like the big book of dark British humor. I don’t know how, but somehow between Russia and America, she must have had an extended vacation of the bloody kind on the island of tea and biscuits because it just wouldn’t make sense otherwise. I mean, look at that girl – she is as Cold War as they come! Unless, of course, you talk to her about Jimmy Choo’s. Suddenly, she’s all sunshine and unicorns and as much as I love my Jimmy’s, there’s a line about how sexually attracted you are allowed to be to a pair of heels. Then again, aren’t they British, too? Yeah, Natasha, the enigma wrapped in a Hot Dog dipped in Borscht. I like her.

Then there’s Thor: the ever-watchful, ever-happy, steroid-fed Labrador puppy of the family. Don’t get me wrong – I love the guy to pieces and if there’s one thing to keep you going after a rough day it’s his hug. Someone should patent them. Not that you should underestimate him – heck they don’t call him the God of Thunder for nothing and I’m not just speaking about his ability to make Jane shout out something other than equations. But I don’t get to see much of that Thor. I am lucky because somehow, I am his favorite person. Sure, Jane is his “Lady” and Asgard forbid someone questioned that (Julie from accounting did, once. She quit soon after, no one knows why) but I know I’m his favorite. He always saves the blueberry pop tarts for me – if that ain’t love I don’t know what is.

Talking about puppy’s-turned-thunder-gods – how is Bruce still single? I know, yeah, there’s that whole Hulk-sized issue but seriously? He is the sweetest of them all. Everyone likes to paint the Cap as the beacon of all-things-good-and-gooey but us on the inside know – Bruce is the real deal. Unless he’s angry of course. I think he might have had a crush on me at some point … actually, I’m sure he did and I was flattered. He is the only one that I can have Doctor Who marathons with or argue about whether Mal and Inara ever got their shit together. So yeah, I like him. Even considered going out with him but I think we both realized pretty quickly that that was a bridge to nowhere so we’re just damn good friends and whenever my cohabitant pisses me off or pulls one of his more assheaded moves, I know I've got a shoulder to lean on.

When you talk about Bruce, you can’t forget about the other science nerd around because these days, they seem to come as a package deal. Tony Stark is … scratch that – do I really have to tell you who Tony Stark is? Yeah, didn’t think so. Still, once he stopped hitting on me (or my boobs), we actually started getting along really well. Sure, most of the time he doesn’t know when to shut up and 90% of his ideas are absolutely crazy but at least he doesn’t hate me when I throw day-old muffin paper balls at him to shut him up. Not to mention he is the only one besides Pepper who really gets how exhausting my job can be with people like the Avengers. Sure, someone needs to invent a Tony-sized muzzle, but at least he knows how the system works.

But obviously there’s more than just the Avengers. There’s the people that keep me sane half the time. Obviously there is Jane, the woman that has become the sister I never knew I wanted. And, yes, sometimes I feel like murdering her, too. But in a loving way, you know? With roses and pillows instead of bulldozers. Not to mention she is perfect for tequila night because she’ll be a goner two shots in and I get the rest of the bottle to myself. Also, there’s Coulson and Maria. I know everyone, even Fury, is scared shitless by how quick I bonded with both. I mean, seriously, we just clicked. One day I was preparing my super-sized nerf dart gun to retaliate Level 16’s sorry attempt at recapturing the flag (which is actually a bulldog bobble head dressed in a blue cape – don’t ask), the next day Maria and me are planning our very own operation over caipirinhas. Coulson earned my never-wavering respect when he tripped Agent Sitwell while the bald man was going in for the kill, thus helping us claim victory for another day.

The sanest of us all is probably Pepper, and how she does it, I do not know and I have given up on figuring it out. You should all just accept Virginia ‘Pepper’ Potts as your mistress and savior and lead a happier life for doing it.

But hey, what am I even saying? Was there a point to this? Right, Avengers, sugar high, all fun and daisies. Except for when it isn’t. And also, before you start on me – I have not forgotten about a certain bird-esque figure with a foible for purple underwear. There’s a reason he gets a knee to the metaphorical groin and I’m getting to it, promise. Patience really needs to stop banging around and get back to being a virtue, it suited her better.

Anyway, back to my point. I love them all, have pretty much from the day I moved into the tower and haven’t looked back since. But there are just times when … they piss me the fuck off. Today being one of them.

I hear the door to my apartment open over the smoky voice of Janis Joplin coming from my stereo – not quietly enough, bucko.

“Hey … Steve, is it?” Yeah, I could sound happier, but I’ve stopped giving a flying monkey’s butt around 5 hours and 7 visitors ago.

Steve comes into view, wide, American trademark smile at the ready. “Hey Darcy, how did you know it was me? Are you feeling alright?”

Gees, someone seriously needs to take a poo on his happy train.

I glower at the man in question before diving behind my magazine again – Paris Hilton deserves my attention today, the Cap doesn’t. “If you all seriously believe you’re fooling me, I’ll have you know I worked out your schedule about 4 hours ago.”

Steve tries – I have to give him that, he really tries – to give me a confused face while he slowly sits down at the other end of the sofa I’m currently stranded on. I just raise my eyebrow at him before looking at the upcoming fall collection. Aaah, to be thin and alluring, those were the days.

I hear Steve sigh in that fabulous way that people sigh these days when they know there’s no use in fucking around with me anymore. It’s been happening a lot lately and it gives me the most amount of satisfaction I’ve gotten in roughly 4 months. It’s been a while, OK?

“We are just trying to help.” He tries the apologetic approach. Pathetic.

“You can tell Barton he can stick his trying where the sun don’ shine.” I snap, throwing the depressing magazine to the floor. “Same goes for you, JARVIS!” The AI doesn’t even bother with a reply – smart machine that one.

“I know you’re under a lot of stress, Darcy, but …”

I sit up as quickly as gravity lets me, finger jabbing at Steve. “Stress?” Oh, he’s scared now, I can tell. If I wasn’t about to go for his jugular with a rusty spoon, I’d wish for a camera just so I could have that face to laugh at for the rest of eternity. “Let me tell you a thing here, oh Captain my Captain.” I plant my foot on the floor, leaning closer while he leans back. “I’ve been stranded on this stupid couch for the last 4 days. When I’m not lying on this couch, I am in bed. The only time I’m not on either horizontal surface, I am shifting around because, let me tell you, everything hurts and as if that wasn’t enough, I am on roughly 50 bathroom runs a day. Yes, peeing like a fucking horse is about as much stress as I get these days so you better think long and hard about what you say to me.”

He looks at me in shock for a full minute before saying: “Soda pop?”, I nod and he takes off. Yeah, you better run.

Think I’m exaggerating? Well, in that case, let me tell you a thing, too. I am Darcy Lewis, former intern of Jane Foster (Yes, THAT Jane Foster) and PR Manager of the Avengers Initiative (Yup, the very one). I am 9 months and 3 days pregnant, every night I have very vivid nightmares that my kid will leave its fortress of kick-a-tude by way of slicing me open with purple-tinted arrowheads and the man responsible for my current state of non-stress has been on a SHIELD-enforced deep-cover op for the last two months with his ex-girlfriend. So no, exaggerate I do not.

On top of everything else, the happy wanna-be-uncles of the “little bundle of joy” I’m manufacturing have taken to visiting me all. the. freaking. time. I was not lying when I said I have their schedule worked out. Right now it’s Steve. After he leaves, I’ll get about 30 minutes to myself because Tony being Tony is never on time. But when he comes, he comes with abandon and usually some new type of knick-knack he put together. It could be sweet if the “toys” he concocts didn’t usually explode at some point or make weird, high-pitched noises. We have taken to only snarling at each other at this point. Tony is on strict orders to “Not Piss Off Darcy”, so all he does is make these really annoying half-choke, half-growl noises.

In his wake, Pepper will come by, squeezing me in somewhere between taking over the world and Pilates. After Pepper, it’s Thor’s happy hour and I have to say, I don’t mind him so much. He just sits there and tells me stories of his childhood in Asgard which was pretty damn cool. Also childhood in Asgard is like 40 times longer than it is on earth, so there’s a lot of stories to be told. Once Thor bounds off to play fetch with whoever feels like it, Jane comes bustling in usually with a mountain of paperwork and that is actually fine, too. She’s quiet, I read or wiggle around or run to the toilet and she’s just … there. Sometimes I can even talk her into giving me some of the transcripts to look over. Every now and again, though not as often, Maria or Coulson pop by, too and even Happy has made an appearance and I don’t even really know him that well.

And I know where this is coming from.

Clint Asshead Barton.

I’ve stopped talking to him about 4 days ago. He gets 30 minutes every day to call home and ask how I and the baby are doing, which is apparently already a very big gesture on Fury’s part. There is also some super-secret beeper or phone or something on him to alert him in case his child, ya know, decides to be born – not that I would know the details. I don’t even know in which time zone he is right now, let alone when he’ll be back. He was supposed to be back 3 weeks ago, then two and when he told me three days before the due date that Fury made him stay under for an additional unknown number of days, I had it.

There is now a lovely, phone-shaped dent in our living room wall and I was put on bed rest by Bruce – I am not quite sure if I’ve forgiven him for that – and without reason, too. Sure, so I got a little mad. I might have thrown death treats around and yes, Thor and Steve had to restrain me from ripping Director Fury’s face off with my shiny red nails (It’s Raining Men by Deborah Lippmann – check it out). There were some Braxton Hicks contractions and something about my blood pressure but the fact of the matter is – I am practically chained to the bed (or sofa). Fury should get himself a new identity and migrate to a country far-far away like … Morocco or something and my child has no father. He, however, doesn’t accept that I am set in my ways and has instead used his 30 minute phone-calls to get this corked-out plan underway that has me under 24 hour surveillance.

He thinks it’s sweet, I think I’ll punch him in the face if he ever makes it back here. It’s what they call romance around here.

“Gees, Steve, read a magazine or something.” Yes, snapping at people is my second favorite pastime these days, right after plotting ways to kill Fury. I’ve nearly gotten JARVIS in on it, too.

The avenger in question has been sitting next to me, semi-nervously fiddling with the hem of his shirt for the last 10 minutes while I’ve been shifting around, trying to find an at least somewhat comfortable position – not possible today. In general this entire pregnancy thing has seriously started to be a total drag. I was never really the “Oh I’m so fat, don’t touch me!” kind of pregnant, instead it went more in the direction of “let’s do it everywhere everyday”, but now? Seriously, it’s been nine months, I’ve done my duty and for the last few days no matter what I do or how I sit, it sorta hurts. I spend about an hour in the bath yesterday (only lukewarm, Mr. Banner-Party-Pooper) trying to scare the devil spawn out of my uterus, giving my belly the evil eye and yelling at it every time the thing dared to kick me as if to annoy me. Didn’t work though.

Back to the matter at hand. Instead of doing as I tell him to, the traitorous captain turns to me, looking very much like he does every time he goes out to face Dr. Doom on the streets of New York. Well, at least there’s that.

“Darcy you need to talk to him.” I narrow my eyes at Steve the way that usually shuts him up. This time, though he gulps, he pushes on.

“He’s going crazy and Natasha’s told us that he can’t concentrate on the mission which won’t help anyone in the long run.” Steve’s got this annoyingly understanding look on his face and then he even braves the deep end and reaches over to squeeze my hand. I just glower at him some more because … if I don’t I am probably going to cry again.

I am not a crier, never was. But this pregnancy has seriously taken a crap on my reputation and now I am the girl known to start bawling at purple paperclips and we just can’t have that.

“Fine,” I snap in the end, snatching my hand away from Steve. It’s his super soldier warmth that’s made me cave, I tell you. My heart is filled with ice, not mushy rose petals. Plus if anything is going kill Clint Francis Barton, it’ll be me. I’m not going let some Far East drug mogul take that privilege away from me. Steve just smiles, the bastard.

Before either of us can do or say something else, my apartment door flies open again.

“Don’t even start with me Lewis, today I actually have the perfect drug for you!” It’s Tony and he’s practically cooing on top of being 15 minutes early. He waltzes into the room, excitedly waving a piece of paper around. With a sigh, I sit up. “You are far too happy for a man about to be murdered.” I mutter while I push and heave myself to my feet, snarling at the Captain when he tries to pull a knight in shining whatever to help me to my feet.

“The difference being, Pregster, that you will actually love this!” Tony is abnormally bouncy, even for him. I scowl at him just out of spite because – hell, I used to be the best bouncer around here. Also I need to remind him that the last time, when his weird little toy robot peed oil all over me, I swore I’d kill him if he tried to build me something again. Follow through, people, that’s what it’s all about.

“Swear to god, Stark, I will first sit, then pee on you if this…”

He interrupts me by shoving the paper right in my face, just for a second. All I catch is the heading – “Mama Lucia’s Lovecakes” – and I gape at him. The thing you need to know about Mama Lucia is this: When Clint Barton was a cute little runaway prankster (with a terrible mullet, if I might add), he used to live with the circus for a while and there was this woman who made breakfast for everyone on Mondays and she, apparently, used to make what Clint calls “lovecakes”. They’re essentially pancakes but seriously? You have not had pancakes until you had the Mama Lucia recipe ones. To this day Clint claims he got me into bed because of the pancakes and, sadly, I might be in agreement with him. They are that amazing.

“I don’t believe you,” I want it to be a hiss, but it sounds more like a desperate moan and Tony laughs his annoying evil-mastermind laugh and practically waltzes into my kitchen.

“Nope, it’s all here and now no one will take this knowledge away from me.”

I make a grab for the paper while he walks past but he snatches it out of reach. Dammit, pregnant belly!

“Nuh uh, Pregster,” He gives me a reproving look. “He made me swear that you never see this.” The death glare is back and Tony just ducks past me into the kitchen. I cannot believe he told Tony! He claims to love me but he tells Tony his most prized recipe? Oh, his death will be slow, probably involving hot clamps or a rusty gardening shears. Plotting the death of my former beloved, I waddle to the restroom for the 12th time.

Once I make it back out, Tony has Steve in an apron and flour mostly outside the bowl instead of in them. It’s funny, I suppose. But I make sure my grin is gone from my lips by the time they see me. That in itself isn’t too much of a feat as I still feel like someone took a roundhouse kick to my back. Slowly, methodically, I lower myself back onto the sofa.

I hear Steve and Tony yapping at each other in the kitchen and I’ve gotta say I feel nearly relaxed. Or as relaxed as possible when there is a constant type of low pain all around you. But for once, they are not focused on me except for the odd comment thrown my way and I just close my eyes.

Yeah, I’m a hardass these days and I guess, at some point in the future I should apologize to them all. But the fact of the matter is – I miss Clint. I know he doesn’t do it on purpose, but I am still pissed and honestly, he could have put up more of a fight with Fury. I know his job is important and saving the world and killing the bad guys, yadda yadda. But this is his stupid kid and it’s not like I wanted this … I mean, I don’t don’t want it but when we found out, he was the one with the big puppy eyes and the happy grin. I am pretty sure when people used to say that I “glow” they were actually talking about him. But for the last quarter of my pregnancy, he’s been here maybe a week, half of which was spend in a decontamination chamber – again with Natasha – and the other half in constant debriefs. 

There you have it folks, family life with a fucking Avenger-slash-S.H.I.E.L.D. agent.

I stroke my hand over my, well, let’s call it womb because that’s what it is at the moment, arguing very hard that there aren’t tears in my eyes. I’m sick and tired of crying over a jerk that behaves just like every other guy. Mature my ass. Not to mention it does kinda hurt a lot now, so I guess it’s not pathetic-sad tears, it can be pain tears, right?

“Ouch,” I mutter, now squinting down at my stomach uncertainly. Yes, actually, that hurts. A lot more than before. I mean, I’ve been in pain pretty much two days straight but I am so used to it at this point, I kinda didn’t notice it. Not really. This though?

“Gees,” Oh, I said that louder, didn’t I?

“Darcy?” Steve’s head pops over the island separating kitchen and living room.

I want to wave him off, but right that moment the pain gets even worse and so instead I gasp and clutch my stomach.

“Bastard,” I swear through my teeth while I hear Steve running, Tony at his heels. I squint up at them, staring at me still weirdly hunched over. “I am so sick of this, I swear. Is it supposed to be this fucking annoying?” Ugh, I sound breathless.

“Oh shit,” I want to laugh, I really do. Because Steve just swore and he is covered in flour, wearing a pink “Kiss the Cook” apron and has a spatula in one hand while Tony hovers behind him, a bit of dough stuck to his ear. But it really fucking hurts now and …

“Oh shit,” That was me, because the penny just dropped. This, as far as I can tell, are contractions.

For what feels like minutes Steve, Tony and me just stare at each other in shock.

“NO!” I shout once the pain is gone. I hold up a finger, silencing Tony. “NO, not … this is not. This is not happening now.”

Tony looks instantly relieved, but Steve looks uncertain. “Darcy, are you sure we should not …?”

He gets the finger again. “No, Steve, we should not. This is not happening now.” I heave myself to my feet again, ignoring the sort of sore feeling that followed the pain. “And you know why? Because it can’t. I am not having this baby with you two freaks around and I mean, my water didn’t break did it? It’s just that Braxton Hicks stuff again.” I hope Tony and Steve believe what I’m saying because I am not. This isn’t Braxton Hicks, I can tell. And while I honestly cannot remember my water breaking, the constant pain today makes sense. It was kind of coming and going, but so slowly that I really hardly noticed.

“It’s pain, I’m gonna walk it off.” I make a show of strutting around the living room, trying to waddle as little as possible, one hand on my back and willing the guys back into the kitchen because if there is one thing that isn’t going to happen today, it’s my child being born. Not with its father still goodness knows where, maybe even dead. What the hell do I know? It will stay right where it’s been the last nine months until he makes it home. Screw irrationality. I will sew everything shut down there if I have to.

Slowly, the boys turn back toward the kitchen and I would feel like doing a victory dance if I could when:

“Miss Lewis, I do believe your analysis of the situation is incorrect. According to my-“

“JARVIS, SHUT UP!” Shit, shit, shit, forgot about JARVIS. Thankfully, the AI does stop speaking, but now Tony is looking at me again.

“No, Tony. I want pancakes, make me pancakes.”

“Miss Lewis I would highly recommend-”

“JARVIS!”

And suddenly, everyone is talking at the same time.

“Talk to me JARVIS, what’s the sitch here?”

“Darcy? Please don’t be the hero …”

“I am not being the hero this is really…”

“According to my calculations Miss Lewis is in very much in-“

“I WANT PANCAKES!”

Silence, all eyes on me, oh goody. I realize my legs are shaking and the pains are back. There might be tears streaming down my face, too.

“Please?”

Another beat of silence, and suddenly it all happens very fast. Steve has one arm around me, guiding me toward the door while yelling at Tony. Suddenly Tony is in front of me, hospital bag packed ages ago over his shoulder. “Gees, Lewis, if you wanted the recipe so badly you could have just told me.”

He tries to joke, but it’s a terrified yelp and before I can answer, he is gone again, jogging toward the elevator and yelling into his ear piece for JARVIS to get a car ready and to call Pepper and Jane and Thor and Bruce and probably everyone else on the planet and I sort of just … walk. One foot in front of the other, remembering to breath and suddenly so grateful for Steve’s arm around me.

“I can’t.”

We’ve reached the elevator, the doors open and waiting for us to step in. Tony and Steve stare at me.

“Darcy, you …”

“I know,” Yes, found my zing again. “I fucking know that I am in fucking labor, Steve.” I dig my heels in when he tries to push me into the elevator. “I am still not having it.” I put on my determined face.

Steve seems at a loss for words but somehow Tony seems to look right through me. A hand on my shoulder, surprisingly gentle, he looks me straight in the eye.

“He already knows, I activated the beeper 10 minutes ago.” I swallow, acting as if I don’t know who he’s talking about.

“He will be here.” Suddenly my lips is quivering and a moment later, Tony is clutching me to him for just a second, then he shoves me away again. “You just need to make sure that you and the kid are healthy so you can both kick his ass once he makes it.”

And suddenly, it’s OK. Well, not OK, but easier.

We make it to the hospital in record time and before anyone has a go at me for not having the kid in the tower – seriously, would you want to have your kid inside the freaking Avengers Tower with the Hulk staring down your hooha? Exactly.

Steve runs ahead to get me a wheelchair and only now I realize he’s still in the apron, madly waving the spatula about. I turn to Tony. “I am officially on leave now, right?” Because boy, I love my job but I do not want to deal with the media-aftermath of this. Tony just snorts and maneuvers me into the chair.

By the time we make it to my room, another contraction hits and I stand in the doorway, doing the stupid breathing exercises while clutching Tony’s hand which makes him very uncomfortable and I can tell he would love to leave now. Do something all mechanically to the water cooler down the hall and pretend that I am not about to have stuff coming out of me, but I am not about to let him get away. This is my revenge.

“Did you hear anything?” I gasp between breaths. Tony shakes his head. “Bastard,” I yelp again and then, thankfully, this contraction is over. My nurse, Trixie (Really? Trixie? This is a hospital, not a strip club!), gets me into a hospital gown and onto my bed but I snap at her before she can cover me with a blanket. I am about to push a freaking melon out of my vagina, is it so hard to believe that I am fucking hot? With a sweet smile and big eyes for my companions, she tries to stick around by talking gibberish that I am not listening to before Steve somehow gets her out of the room – I knew the spatula would come in handy.

“Is there anyone else you want here?” Steve is at my bed now, hovering like an old maid while Tony is über-interested in the unplugged monitoring equipment in the corner, poking it like the genius he is.

“Clint,” I think this is the first time in weeks I’ve said his name without my voice being laced with murder.

“Your mother or …” Yeah, right. Good one Cap. I am pretty sure he realized just how stupid he was, because he shuts up after that.

A brisk knock at the door and my Doctor comes in. I like her. She is brash, to the point, very old school and very very German, but somehow I find it comforting. She doesn’t sugarcoat shit, she just puts it out there with her accent and a smirk that could rival Natasha’s. Either you deal, or you don’t.

“Hello Darcy,” she says, all business, snapping one of her plastic gloves.

“OH! Forgot the bag in the car!” I have honestly never seen Tony moves this fast without his suit on. Steve looks ready to bolt, too, but I lunge for his hand and pin him to my side.

“Hey Dr. Muller,” Look at that, nearly a grin. Probably looks like I swallowed a screw but hey, better than nothing.

“Did your water break yet?” See? This is what I mean. Straight to the point.

“Uhm, not actually sure.” This does get me a raised eyebrow, but at the same time she moves forward and settled between my legs. Steve thankfully has given up on fleeing. It’s maybe stupid and somewhere a feminist is dying but I seriously do not want to be alone right now.

“Elaborate?” Comes the Doc’s voice from between my legs, shortly followed by “This might hurt a bit.”

So yes, I try and block out what she’s doing for now. Not that I have a problem with my nakedness but it’s just different right now. Also, I’m producing enough pain on my own so really, why does she have to go poking?

“Uhm, well … nothing got wet?” I bite my lip, feeling her cold plastic fingers where I really don’t want them. “I think?”

Oh shit, this hurts like a fucker. I suck in a deep breath and I bite my lip so hard I nearly draw blood, cramping my hand around Steve’s who tries his best to ignore what’s happening below deck so to speak.

“Fucking ass fucker on a fucking banana!” Hey, if you’re ever allowed to swear, now’s the time, right? I try to breathe through it, but it stings like a mother and in my head, I wish all kinds of hell demons on Clint Barton’s ass. Thankfully, with my tirade she ends her quick exam. I fall back into my pillow panting, only now realizing that I had sort of sat up.

“Well, your waters are gone.” Dr. Muller states, snapping her cloves again when she takes them off and throws them away. Did I say I liked her no-nonsense attitude? Really, a bit of compassion would be nice right about now.

“I had a bath last night?” I wheeze, closing my eyes again trying to calm down. Dr. Muller says nothing, apparently figuring that it must have happened and then and I suddenly realize I must have been in labor for nearly 12 hours then. “Wait, Doc, have I been in labor for hours?” I am staring at her now and by the way Steve rubs his thumb over my knuckles I must look like I’m about to swallow her whole. And I might as well be.

“How much am I dilated?” Because, hello? 12 hours already, I must be about to pop!

“Three centimeters,” is her short reply and I would have launched myself at her if Steve didn’t hold on to my hand for dear life. A hint of kindness comes to the Doc’s eyes now.

“It’s still a while to go. I’ll check on you later.” Right, I probably imagined the kindness.

Three centimeters? That means seven more to go and I already feel like I ran a marathon. I snatch my hand from Steve when Dr. Muller leaves, suddenly not feeling very touchy-feely anymore.

“It’ll be fine Darcy,” Steve tries, a lot more at ease now that no more poking at the lady bits is happening right in front of him.

“And you would know that how?” I bite out, glowering at him because he’s the only poor soul here at the moment. He opens his mouth, but I hold up my hand. “Don’t even dare. Everything with a penis is not allowed to say anything ever again.” Good for him that he listens.

Seconds later, the door opens again and Tony is back, wide grin on his face which freezes once he sees my face. Behind him though, there is movement and one after the other Jane, Bruce and Thor step in, all wide-eyed and excited. God, I want to punch them all and it must show on my face because Jane rushes to me, elbowing Steve out of the way and settling in the chair next to my bed.

She looks at the guys at the other end of the room, then back to me before saying: “Too much dick?”

I gape at her, momentarily forgetting that I can feel a contraction just around the corner. Did she just really say that? She seems as surprised as me, but holds my gaze. Smiling for the first time in hours, I nod. Thank god I got my super scientist on my side.

It’s actually surprising how pushy and structured Jane can be if she’s away from her charts and graphs. Not that she is horrible during her job, but she is just so focused on equations that nothing else matters and you sometimes wonder how she actually managed to get anything done in her life when she didn’t have an intern feeding her or reminding her about such trivial things like sleep.  But right now, she has the guys in formation in no time, barks out orders like the best drill sergeant I’ve ever seen and five seconds later, the room is empty. Not that I have time to bask in the lack of testosterone. The universe has made me its bitch so with the closing of the door, I muffle a painful moan in my pillow and try to remember all the shitty little things they told us at the three prenatal classes I visited on my own before it got too depressing looking at Bob and Susan all doe-eyed, breathing fucking stones like it brings world peace.

“I’m gonna kill him,” I manage to grunt out when I hear Jane place a glass on the little table next to my bed.

“No you’re not.” Does she have to sound so chipper about it? “But I will if he doesn’t get here quickly.” See? This is why I like Jane best. She gets me. Sometimes.

I have to tell you, apart from the pain and sweating like a pig, labor is actually pretty fucking boring. I mean, I bet most women use the time to think all about how their precious little baby will be with them soon, double-check if their cooing is up to scratch. But when you’re like me, it’s just a lot of swearing, pouting at the ceiling and wishing to be on a beach somewhere sipping cocktails. God, cocktails; I could kill for a good mojito and a couple of double Tequila shots right about now. Then again, maybe not Tequila because I have a feeling that it was exactly those shots nine months ago that led to me being where I am.

I am going to be a terrible mother, just in case you were wondering. Here I am, about to literally bring life into this world and all I want is alcohol and a rifle. Alcohol for me, rifle for he-who-will-no-longer-be-named. Yes, I am still undecided on the matter of how he will die, only that he will is a certainty.

I try to put on a brave face, I really do. Because what else is there to do? But when it nears 5am and the pain has me clawing the walls (why did I say no to the epidural? WHY? They should not ask you that between contractions, bastards), I feel myself crack. Jane’s dozed off in the chair and I just lie there caught between breathing and sobbing. This is not how it was supposed to be. And I don’t just mean the giving-birth-alone thing, I mean all of it. Living with flipping superheroes, who does that? Crazy people. I am crazy people. And not only do I live with them, I live with one of them in particular. I mean, sure, they all look like they’re worth a fuck but why did I decide I’d do the whole being-in-love thing with one of them? Suddenly I understand why my mother was always so hell-bent on getting normalcy into me because not being normal means that you are lying in a hospital bed, only just 25, about to bring a child into the world that might at best have a father that regularly flings himself off buildings and at worst has no father at all.

Go figure that my labor has to be long and drawn-out, just so I have all the time in the world to actually go crazy if I wasn’t before. If at least it just involved a lot of crazy screaming and blood all the time, then I’d have no time to overthink everything again. Trying not to wake Jane, I crawl out of bed and slowly waddle outside. A few steps down the hallway, I find a niche with chairs and piled on all of them, the Avengers. I nearly feel like crying again because quite obviously, the fate of New York is only a fraction as important as me giving birth. Pepper is here now, too and has Tony and Bruce sleeping on each of her shoulders while she is reading something on her tablet. Thor and Steve have their long legs outstretched and on the small table but while Thor is sleeping, too, Steve seems in a staring match with a cup of what looks like stale coffee.

Yeah, I’m pretty lucky and maybe not half as crazy as I thought because, really, who would give up this for white picket fences? Exactly.

I stand there for a minute longer, feeling calm and reassured just by their presence. I meant to wake them up, order them into my room to make the quietness go away but now, I don’t think I need it anymore. I want to make a quiet retreat but obviously, the man upstairs has a different idea. This is the worst one yet.

I stumble forward, half landing on Bruce who jerks in shock while I clutch my stomach, tears shooting into my eyes just from the pain. A string of profanities leaves my mouth while around me, everyone jumps to life. In a second, the low lights from the maternity ward are blocked by a mass of bodies hovering around me.

“Don’t. Fucking. Touch. Me.” I yell because as touching and lovely as they all are, I am right now battling a horrifying need to push and I really don’t need Thor’s fat face hovering over me right now.

“Come on, everyone, give her some room.” Thank God for women not losing their heads in a crisis. I send Pepper a thankful, if pained look while she pushes Tony and Steve away. Then, she is next to me again, but not too close.

“Can you walk or …” I just shake my head, knowing this is it. I was 7.5 centimeters dilated the last time Dr. Muller checked and that was a blurred mass of painful contractions ago, but this one just feels different. I feel like I need to push, badly and I feel panic coming on again, mixed in with anger.

Clint is still not here, he doesn’t fucking care. I want to believe that he does and that it isn’t his fault but right now? Right about fucking now I don’t give a shit anymore. I am pretty much giving birth on a waiting room chair and he is probably busy fucking Natasha into oblivion and I don’t think I ever hated him more than I do at this moment.

Someone must have informed Dr. Muller, because now she hoists me up and into a wheelchair, snapping in her harsh accent at each of the Avengers like they’re naughty schoolboys. I am trying to catch my breath, the pain and need to push slowly ebbing away, when there’s more commotion behind me.

“Stop running, you’re bleeding all over the fucking floor!”

That’s Natasha’s voice.

I ram my feet to the floor, stopping the wheelchair, and twist around. All I see is the Cap’s ass and while I usually don’t mind, right about now I really wish it wasn’t all round and perky and blocking my view. Pepper rescues me again by shoving the boys to the side and suddenly, I have a clear view of Clint, hop-jogging at breakneck speed down the hallway, Natasha in his wake.

There’s probably a lot of things I should be doing. Weeping with joy would be at the top of many a woman’s list but me? I tend to go for the tough love approach and so when Clint makes it to the group, panting and apparently trying to ask Bruce between gasps where I am, I get to my feet. I don’t make it far before a) Dr. Muller has me in a death grip and shoves the wheelchair back under my butt and also b) my legs shake so bad they’re about to give out. Wow, that last one had a punch behind it. Right then, yelling it is.

“You have got to be kidding me!” Oh, I do love how he flinches. That he then turns to me with the biggest smile on his face though, only fuels me on. “Don’t even think about it, you stay right where you are. I don’t see you for MONTHS and then you turn up here bleeding and smiling like nothing is wrong?” At least his face falls, but only a little and it makes me furious. Does he think because I am yelling everything is alright? Is he so fucking proud of himself for making it “just in time” that he feels he deserves a clap on the back (Tony will get frogs in his bed for that one)? I am nearly shaking now, and I feel tears coming again but he’s has another thing coming if I am going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

“Don’t follow me.” I say and quickly turn around again, wheeling myself back to my room, past Jane who has come to out, too, a worried look on her face.

Once I am back on my bed, the next contraction already announcing itself while Dr. Muller does a last check-up, I regret my decision. But I have a little bit of stubbornness left and even when I hear the Doctor say the words I knew she would, I keep my mouth shut.

“Well, this is it, Ms. Lewis. When the next contraction comes, I need to you push, just like I told you. Chin on your chest, deep breath and right into your pelvis.”

The stripper nurse is back again, too and both her and Dr. Muller are busy attaching me to the heart monitor and then getting my legs up, gripping one each until I’m in position and I try, I really try but then I catch Jane’s eyes and my lips quiver and she’s on her way.

“Push, Darcy,” Trixie-the-stripper says with that disgusting honey voice of hers and I can feel that she is right but I shake my head. He’ll be here, I mean he is but he will be in here in just a second and I can’t – won’t – do it without him now. But pain is getting worse and I am now physically restraining myself from just pushing, the urge making me nearly crazy. I feel sweat all over my face and Dr. Muller is shouting at me now and where the fuck is Clint? He was just outside the door. Did Jane misunderstand? Did she think I just wanted a bag of fucking gummy bears?

“BARTON!” I yell now instead of pushing, figuring someone will get the hint.

“Darcy, the baby is in distress, you need to push. NOW.”

And with a sob, I do. Next to me, I can hear the frantic beeping of the monitor the stripper is grinning at me encouragingly and there is just no way I can stop. Swallowing a sob, I push my chin to my sweaty chest and push with everything I have. I am exhausted and in so much pain I could scream and pushing hurts even more but I can’t stop now and so I just keep going. Pushing and pushing more even though it doesn’t feel like anything is happening.

Dr. Muller is saying something again, but all I hear is a sort of white noise in my ears while I will something to move.

“Darce, hon, fuck. You gotta breathe.”

In an instant, I have my eyes open and my mouth gulps in air. I whip my head to the side and there is Clint, right next to me. No stupid grin, just worried and solid and finally here.

It’s a bit cheesy – or a lot – but you can’t be abnormal all the time, can you? So I think it’s alright that I start blubbering and dragging him to me while I try and get air into my lungs.

“I fucking hate you,” I say into his shoulder and I think he is shaking as much as I am.

“I know you do, babe. That’s fine.” And now, finally it is.

I feel out of sorts and also, I feel cheated out of yelling bloody murder at him for hours. But at this point, I am just happy that he’s there and when he climbs in behind me on the bed, still smelling like bullets and sand and something oily, I only lean into him.

It’s five contractions later that Trixie (I feel more giving now, so I dropped the stripper bit) yells “I see the head!” and I stare up at Clint for a moment, scared and overwhelmed. Then I start pushing at him.

“Move,” I gasp, and when he looks at me all kinds of hurt, I roll my eyes. “You wanna see your fucking kid being born or not?” Men, seriously. But my words have him scrambling.

During the next contraction, I actually feel something move, hear a weird wet noise and see Clint blanch, a bit unsteady on his feet.

“Darce, the head, I can see …”

“If you crap out on me, Barton, this kid will have my surname!” Yes, snapping, and at him for a change. This is coming together nicely. Also my words must have magical abilities because he actually doesn’t look like he’s about to faint anymore. Instead, he grins at me like a maniac and when Dr. Muller asks if we want to feel it, we both reach down and I can honestly say I have never felt anything weirder in my entire life.

It’s equal parts disgusting and the most amazing experience I will ever have, and that is counting double-stacked Oreos.

Hand still on the head of our child – our child! – he somehow makes it to my side and presses a kiss to my lips.

“I am so sorry, so sorry. I’ll quit S.H.I.E.L.D. if you want me to just don’t ever kick me out again? Not like earlier? Darce I thought …” Rambling!Clint is the cutest type of Clint, damn him. To make him stop, I lean forward and kiss him again.

“I love you,” I say, right before I feel the next contraction. I am pretty sure this will be it and Dr. Muller confirms it when she tells me ‘just one more hard push, Darcy!’ and so I do it.

I take a deep breath and I push. My legs are shaking, tired muscles aching and I am pretty sure I will never have sex again but then, I feel it. I couldn’t really say what it feels like, but I know when it’s done. Like the snap of a finger, the pressure is gone. I see Dr. Muller reaching down and then there it is, the little head. The lightest fluff of dark, blood-smeared hair and a reddish-blue face with the most adorable button nose and then …

“Goddammit, Barton, move your butt I want to see … wait, is it a boy or a girl?” I can’t even manage a mean snipe right now, I am just blubbering, eyes watering and arms reaching out because now I hear crying. My heart beating so fucking fast because … it’s here. My child, our child. I’m a mother and right now all I want is to finally hold him or her in my arms.

“It’s boy, Darcy, we’ve got a son!”

It’s like I’m feeling too many things at once so I just get my head to shut up for a change and wipe my eyes, trying to get sweat and tears away so I can see properly how Clint fumbles the small scissors between his fingers and cuts the umbilical cord. When I see Trixie reaching for my son, I give her my deadliest glare and with a knowing smile, Dr. Muller places the little screaming bundle on my chest. I guess it should be disgusting, all the blood and smear everywhere but I really couldn’t care less. All I can do is look at him and trying to keep myself together. I know I love Clint more than I can say but this? This is different. I just look at him and I know that no one ever will be as important to me as he is. The feeling scares me a little but feeling him move and breathe soothes it away. He’s still crying and I bet in less than a week, I’ll be sick of hearing but right now I can’t get enough.

“Hello,” I whisper, shaking hands flittering over his little arms, his little legs. It’s all there and I know every mother says it but he is so beautiful, so perfect. “Hello you, I’m your mom.” I swallow, thickly, dimly aware that Dr. Muller is hovering next to me now while Trixie cleans up between my legs.

“Clint, look at him.” I am sniffling, looking around for Clint but he’s right there next to me, eyes wide and filled with wonder and maybe a little red. Tentatively, he reaches out, his hand coming to rest on our son’s back. I giggle because his hand is so large it covers the entire spine and Clint looks up to me at the sound.

“I’m a dad.”

I blink furiously, sick of stupid tears all the time and rest my forehead to his. “Yes, you’re a dad.”

Not soon after, Dr. Muller takes him away for his first check up and to clean him. I want to protest, even try to sit up but Clint forces me down and maybe it’s better. Everything from my hips down is still in pain and I know it’s irrational to be scared. But already I feel the need to protect him and also … I’ve only had him for a few minutes. I want him back.

“Can you-“ But Clint already knows what I want to say. He stands, kisses my forehead and follow Dr. Muller. Knowing Clint will keep an eye out makes me calm enough to lay back. After a few seconds, Trixie is back and she helps me sit up, gets my bag and passes me a large shirt from it. While I change into it, she remakes the bed and by the time I can lay down again, I am nearly asleep. I don’t want to, though. Not until they are back; my family. Hell, I have a family now.

It’s a fight, but I manage. And when Clint comes back in, his face is stretched into the most wonderful, wide smile. In his arms, he carries a bundle all wrapped up now and no longer crying. I try and scoot over to make room, but it hurts too much so Clint carefully passes my son back to me and pulls up a chair next to the bed. For a long while, we’re both quiet, just looking down and I feel my eyes dropping again.

“We never settled on a name,” Clint says after a while, one of his big thumps stoking over the little ones’ pink cheek.

“Not my fault,” I yawn and I would have smacked him if my arms weren’t busy rocking our son. The thought still makes me giddy.

“I meant it, you know. I’ll quit if you want me to.”

Under different circumstances I’d have probably rolled my eyes. When he gets serious, Clint gets this martyr thing going that is sexy for about 5 minutes and then gets old faster than an infomercial. It’s not that he hates life; I think it’s just that he, like most men, hasn’t quite understood that a simple, honest apology with a change in attitude as follow-up is pretty much all most women are looking for.

“Leeran,”I say instead to distract him, looking from the sleeping baby to Clint. “I like Leeran Ronin Barton.”

Gees, I love that man. You have no idea how my heart is hammering away when he looks at me like he does now, when he kisses me again. Could make a girl believe she’s the only one in the galaxy. I’m pretty sure this can’t be healthy for my ribcage, so I push him away after a moment. Really, it’s for health reasons, it’s got nothing to do with my recurring inability to deal with deep emotions. I am good with emotions, honest.

“Leeran,” Clint murmurs, trying it out. “Leeran Ronin Barton.”

Yup, he likes it, I can tell. When he really loves something, he has this little, nearly-not-there smile on his face. I know that because he looks at me like that sometimes. Not all the time, mind. I know I can be frustrating and annoying – hello, I give myself gray hair, so please, Clint needs to stop complaining. But sometimes, when he is tearing his hair out over what I will forever claim are brilliant ideas or I rant at him after a long day, I see it. He tries to be all annoyed and mature but that little quirk of his lips gives him away.

I catch him with that smile and I know we’re still good, me and my Bobby McGee.


End file.
